


Lord and Lady of the Fens

by FactorialRabbits



Series: OC studies [4]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, canonical characters not named in text but tagged for who they are, folklore and customs, hospitality conventions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-06
Updated: 2019-03-06
Packaged: 2019-11-12 19:56:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18017411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FactorialRabbits/pseuds/FactorialRabbits
Summary: Written for B2MEM 2019, for the prompt of 'a stranger' (all the OCs).Also written when someone woke me up deciding to ring the doorbell at am and I suddenly had an idea. It is very silly and very steeped in the folklore of where I grew up. Like 'if providing hospitality, do not ask your guests their names, and vice-versa. Who knows which one is the fae, and nobody wants those having your name'.The time period of this fic is around about 3000 TA, so 20-ish years before LOTR.





	Lord and Lady of the Fens

**Author's Note:**

> Written for B2MEM 2019, for the prompt of 'a stranger' (all the OCs).
> 
> Also written when someone woke me up deciding to ring the doorbell at am and I suddenly had an idea. It is very silly and very steeped in the folklore of where I grew up. Like 'if providing hospitality, do not ask your guests their names, and vice-versa. Who knows which one is the fae, and nobody wants those having your name'.
> 
> The time period of this fic is around about 3000 TA, so 20-ish years before LOTR.

Hrothgar sat on a tree stump not far from his home, smoking his pipe. Æthelthryth had banished him from the house while she finished making dinner - an argument as old as their marriage - and it was not as though there was work to be done this late in the day.

Well, no, there was an awful lot of work he  _ could _ be doing, but none important enough to disturb his quiet evening.

Quite content, he puffed away and gazed out across the fen, to the sunset.

He was just drifting into a jolly daze when, from the direction of the Entwash, he saw two figures approaching. That got him to put down his pipe, and squint; the little-uns lived the other way, closer to the safety of the village, and were not expected anyway.

But, well, it was only two folk, and it was not as though either he or his Æthelthryth had anything worth stealing; surely it would be no trouble.

Hrothgar chuckled to himself; there had been no trouble in these parts for nearly sixty years, and if there were some it would be the news of the century. Much better than those new-fangled cattle his sister-son was had bought home.

As the figures drew closer, however, his face turned to a frown; one of the figures was heavily supporting the other. He put aside his pipe, grabbed his walking stick in one hand and a lantern in the other, and set off at a surprisingly fast pace towards them.

A moment later, he stopped, turned and called towards the hut, “Æthel! There be people headed this way! Just goin’ ‘ave a wee peek; one of ‘em lookey ‘urt.”

His wife, nearing seventy just as he passed it, poked her head around the doorway, squinting half blind in the direction, “bring ‘em in anyway. Got some going an’ shan’t be ‘aving people out on ta fen af’er dark.”

He gave her a small, ridiculous salute with the lantern; she shooed him off, and returned inside. With a fond smile, Hrothgar set off.

* * *

Once he was within what he thought was hearing range, Hrothgar called out a greeting and lifted his lantern higher, hoping to guide them over.

“Good sir, I do pray that you are real,” the more upright of the two spoke with clear exhaustion in his voice.

It was late enough he could barely see them, but from the smell of blood there were indeed injuries. A quick glance showed it to be both of them, and both were dressed in far fancier clothes than Hrothgar had seen in his long life. Both were unreasonably tall - if he had not needed both of his hands, Hrothgar certainly would have had something to say about that. Neither of them looked very old; he would reckon the eldest of his grandchildren were about their age. Relatives, most likely. Maybe brothers, maybe cousins. It was hard to tell at times.

“More real t’an anything else ya laddies’ll be seein’ this late,” Hrothgar waved a hand. “Me missus’ got ta stove on, an’ invites ya ta come’un wait ta night wit’ us.”

The two boys exchanges a look, and it was the more injured appearing one who spoke next, “Please, kind sir. Please. And if you could help us towards Edoras in the morning…?”

“I cannee tell ya where t’at is, but I need ta be taking a trip ta market int’ morrow. There be a map up Wickinch, if no-on’ knows anyt’ing.”

The map of Rohan was the prized possession of the village, bought back decades ago by one of the more adventurous sorts. They could be a bit protective of it, but they were good folk who wanted no trouble; if they could both help  _ and  _ see these strangers on their way in the same action, it was almost certain they would.

The more upright boy seemed to slip a bit, triggering Hrothgar into action, “t’is way ta‘ouse. Not far."

They exchanged an exhausted look between one another again, but followed. Hrothgar had to slow a little for them to keep out, the walking stick now put more to use checking the ground than for leaning of.

* * *

Æthelthryth was waiting at the doorstep when the trio arrived, immediately moving to fuss over the boys. In the light of the fire one could see they were dripping with mudded water atop everything, almost as though they had decided to take a wee dip in the fen.

Well, they probably had not decided to.

Hrothgar took it upon himself to split the food between the four of them, whilst his wife kept up an endless stream of chatter - about the children and grandchildren, and how lovely it was to see new faces - as she found them clean clothes, wash cloths and bandages. He had to suppress a small laugh when the boys tried to wave off her attempts to help them clean the mostly minor injuries they bore; nobody was getting Æthel to give up a chance to mother again.

Soon enough the boys were clean and dry, fed and washed and put to bed on fresh straw next to the fire. Not long after, Æthelthryth and Hrothgar took to their own beds.

The next morning Hrothgar had the boys all set up on his boat, stacked in as much as the eels, reeds and fish for the market. By afternoon they had found passage to their Edoras - the Capital, Ealdwine said - and were well on their way with a reputable traded headed that way. Hrothgar was not quite sure how they were planning on paying said trader - maybe their fancy clothes? Æthelthryth had told them to keep the dry ones they had been given, after all - but was sure it would all work out eventually.

So he sold his produce, headed home, got promptly kicked out as Æthelthryth prepared food, found his pipe and settled back on his favourite tree stump once again.

And if that year’s hunting was particularly good, well, that was a piece of good luck incidentally feeding the stories of how ol’ Hrothgar helped some injured faerie princes.

Stories suspiciously similar to those of how the king’s son and sister-son, swept downstream and separated from their guards in an accident crossing the Entwash, took shelter that night with a Lord and Lady of the Swamp.


End file.
